


The Stag Knight

by Valkymie



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Be gentle, F/M, Female Protagonist, Mostly Fluff, Reader-Insert, artist tries fanfic, bearer of the curse has a mild case of the tsundere, but oops things are turning sour!, my kink is murderer in the streets gentle in the sheets, slowburn?, sorry im not familiar with fanfic terms D:, the beginnings of a romance, the world needs more dark souls fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:33:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkymie/pseuds/Valkymie
Summary: The Bearer of the Curse comes across Creighton the Wanderer, who is bent on revenge. The two of them end up sharing a bonfire for the night.





	1. An Unexpected Bedmate

**Author's Note:**

> _This is my first fic!! In fact I only recently read my first fic too._
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> _I don't know why Creighton appeals to me so much, especially since everyone seems to ship him with Pate. But since there's no Creighton x Reader fic in existence, I must make my own._
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> _Also I really love what i call the muder-in-the-streets, gentle-in-the-sheets trope._
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> _This is the first chapter of I think 3 or 4, exploring a blooming romance between the bearer of the curse and Creighton, throughout his questline._  
>  Not everything will be canon with in-game stuff, so take a grain of salt with you as you read.
> 
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> _Here's me wishing there was a romance system in dark souls. I hope you guys enjoy reading!_

Undead. What a load of crap it’s been. You can scarcely remember your life before undeath, only to find yourself at the hut of three insane old women. And now you have to fight for your life every day to link some blasted fire? You don’t recall signing up for this shit. But hell, maybe you did. Maybe you were that kind of person before. Now you’re just bitter and tired.

 

You glance over the edge, against your better judgement. Sure, there was enough space on this ledge to walk on, but it didn’t help you feel any more  _ safe _ . One fumble, one push from a hollow -  that was all it took for it to all be over. Well -- until you wake by a familiar bonfire and find your way back to collect your lost souls. But falling to your death wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, even if the death wasn’t permanent. And you certainly didn’t relish the thought that every death brings you closer to being a hollow yourself -- both in appearance and in sanity. Ugly bastards.

 

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment before pushing onwards. Navigating a cliffside, battling crazed hollows, fending off a merciless invader...It hardly seemed worth it for some rusted old key you pilfered off a corpse. But every key you find gives you a glimmer of hope that it will lead you to something useful.

 

Or, at the very least, something interesting.

 

Finally, you catch a glimpse of the bridge you crossed to get here -- and the stench of the nearby pile of burning corpses wafts on the breeze.

 

You remember why you hate this place.

 

Luckily, the smell isn’t as bad as it once was, as you’ve been here long enough to get used to it -- not to mention all the other disgusting places you’ve come across while traversing this land. 

 

Bringing the tatters you call a scarf up to your nose, you hope to block out what’s left of the stench. Who keeps that thing burning, anyways? You light your torch with it, in spite, figuring you’ll get some use out of the pile anyways. The sun’s starting to set, too.

 

Ever the explorer, you pass the flaming corpse pile to inspect a gated hut of sorts nearby. You vaguely remember this area held prisons for undead, and shudder to think what life would have been like for you if you were born here. That it’d be you inside one of these prisons, rotting alive, for the rest of what -- eternity?

 

Of course the gate is locked.

 

You rattle the gate anyways, hoping it’s old enough to just fall off the hinges -- but nothing happens. Nothing even stirs inside, and you raise your torch to get a better look, careful not to set the ivy consuming the stone walls on fire. Treasure? Anything? 

 

You’re relieved to see a bonfire inside, feeling overdue for a safe haven to rest at. Looking further, you spy a body near some skeletons, but it doesn’t stir. Not from when you rattled the gate, nor from the light of your torch. Asleep? Probably dead, like practically everything else you find these days.

 

You rattle the gate again, clinging to hope, but alas the stubborn hinges remain intact. Then you remember something, and start pawing at your pockets and pouches before presenting the key you’d found earlier.

 

No sense in not trying.

 

You put the key in the lock-hole, and struggle to turn it, both objects rusted with age. Eventually, it gives way -- though not without an eerie groan as you slowly push it open. Weary from the day, you approach the bonfire and light it before placing your torch at its edge and sitting your exhausted body on the cold, stone floor.

 

“Who are you?” a deep voice rings out, clear as day. It gives you a start, and your armor jostles noisily as you look from side to side. The body. Remembering it makes your own body tense as you half-stand and face it, your hand instinctively reaching for your sword hilt.

 

“A bearer of the curse,” is all you can muster. The other voice was a man’s, with an accent unlike yours, but not necessarily foreign.

 

“I thought you were that bastard for a moment.” He speaks again, but seeing as the body producing it still hasn’t moved an inch, you lower your guard again. Not hostile yet, at least. Your hand remains on your hilt as you sink back into a sitting position.

 

“What bastard?” you ask, curiously.

 

“You’ve set me free, now I can find ‘im,” He seems tired, but his voice holds lingering rage. “the cheeky prick…He won’t know what hit ‘im.”

 

He didn’t exactly answer your question. You take your torch with your free hand and pan it slowly towards him to get a better look. He’s well armored, chainmail head to toe, practically. His face is obscured by a domed helmet and metal mask, with a chainmail coif attached. Leather belts fasten a dark blue tabard to his waist. It bears a white stag head as an emblem -- he’s a knight perhaps? But the sharp axe resting on his right shoulder is a fearsome weapon, one you don’t normally associate with noble knights. Especially since it’s rusted with blood.

 

“Who are you?” you ask, mirroring his first words to you.

 

“I am Creighton, of Mirrah. I travel from land to land, to hone my blade,” he growls. “I’ve heard this land was full of danger. I thought it would suit me perfectly.”

 

“This...prison... hardly seems like a place to test your skills,” you remark, remembering that he was locked in here. “How did you get in here?”

 

“I joined forces with a man on the way, but he was no more than a back-stabbing knave,” he began to explain. “He took the first chance he had to try and off me.” The man raises his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to glint in the bonfire’s light. You could see the rage smoldering behind those eyes, even through the helmet and mask he wore, not to mention the locks of white hair framing them. “I decided to set a trap for him here.”

 

He sighed, and his look softened briefly before he hung his head again. “But then I got trapped myself.”

 

His leather gloves creak as he tightens his fists. “I can’t believe that I was  _ so _ ... dense.

 

“Thank the stars that you came along.” His final words held sincerity, matched by the look he gave you once he raises his head once more. He seems to take this moment to get a better look at you, but there wasn’t much to see thanks to all the armor you had piled on. Nonetheless, his brow furrows as he adds:

 

“You be careful of ‘im. Pate, I think he said. He wears this rather unusual ring. You’ll know it... when you see it.”

 

Ah. Pate.

 

You’re taken aback slightly by the mention of this familiar name. Leaning back a bit, you recall the mild-mannered man who seemed both keen on warning you of a nearby trap, though either vastly unaware of its true danger, or willfully withholding that information. He also seemed disinterested in helping you beyond that, save for giving you a white soapstone. You grind your teeth bitterly, remembering the small army of hollows you had to fight through after that gate had shut behind you. And nary a peep from ol’ Pate until you’d trudged your way back around. It’s made you wary of every gate you’ve come across since then, to be honest. But as for the unusual ring, you don’t recall noticing one in your encounter with him -- but you weren’t exactly looking before, so you make a mental note to check later if you come across him again.

 

“I’ve seen ‘is type before,” he continues gruffly. “He kills  _ entirely _ for the pleasure of it.” Creighton fidgets in place. “I’m sure I won’t be ‘is last victim...The man’s better off dead, I tell you. He’s a slick talker, so don’t let ‘im fool you,” he stressed, leaning in slightly. He seemed awfully concerned for you.

 

“Pate...the man with the strange ring. Watch out for the slimy rat,” he reiterated, “And don’t you believe a word he says.

 

“I’ll find the common footpad, and put an end to his roguery.” His words fade into a weak-aired chuckle. You almost mistook it for coughing, but upon realizing it was Creighton’s laugh, you feel a slight shiver down your spine. You’d hate to be in Pate’s shoes.

 

Well. At the very least, it didn’t seem like this Creighton fellow was interested in killing you. Not right now, anyways. His mind seemed pretty preoccupied with seeking revenge against Pate. Placing your torch back by the bonfire, you lean your head back for a moment, before taking off your helmet and setting it beside you. Wearing that hunk of metal all day was enough to give you both a headache and a sore neck. Stretching it out, you hear Creighton speak again.

 

“I didn’t realize you were such a pleasant thing to look at ‘neath that helm of yours,” he said. Your head darts to see him looking straight at you, to your surprise. The way his eyes crinkled makes you think he’s grinning behind his helm, only for his chuckle to confirm your suspicions. Your brow twitches into a furrow for a brief moment, as you turn away and move to the opposite end of the prison, though you’d rather have gotten to sleep by the warm fire. But, you’d rather test your luck in here, than to sleep outside with the hollows and invaders, though.

 

“Guess I’ll be sleeping armed tonight.” you respond, dissatisfied. Cold and uncomfortable, just perfect. You don’t feel guilty about the effigies you’ve been stockpiling to maintain your human appearance. You brush the dirt and dried blood from one of your gauntlets to get a look at yourself, though warped as it is. Better than turning into a wrinkly hollow prune.

 

“Oh come now, don’t be like that. Y’know, we could have a go at it if you like,” Creighton offers.

 

‘It’ -- Seriously? You raise a brow at him. Who has the time for such frivolities when every corner is fraught with danger?

 

“Y’know, I’ve been described as a looker myself,” he adds, as you scoff. Anyone would play themselves up if they were trying to catch some tail. He takes off his helmet, and while most of his hair has been pulled back into a low ponytail, his shock-white bangs obscure his face as he places the helmet by his feet. White hair -- probably old as shit, and you aren’t into that. The sound of his chainmail rustling and the bonfire crackling are the only things filling the air as you wait patiently. Might as well satiate some curiosity at least.

 

“Don’t you think?” he breaks the relative silence, looking straight at you. Though he sat by the opposite wall from you, your eyesight was good enough to make out his features. He was a middle-aged man -- early 40s, you guess -- but with hair gone all white well before its time. Tired eyes gazed at you, though you couldn’t make out the color. And a handsome jaw that wore both a wicked smile and a peppering of scruff. The years were kind to him, and with the help of his own presumed stockpile of effigies, he did well to keep the hollowing at bay, like you.

 

And he was right -- he was definitely a looker, but you’d never admit it. You have other things to worry about. He rose and moved to kneel just inches away from you, placing a hand on the wall behind you. You look up and clutch your sword hilt, wary and cautious about his approach.

 

“What do you say?” he asks, his voice still a low growl, but clearer now that it wasn’t muffled by his helm’s mask. His eyes you could make out now, mere inches from yours. They were a piercing, cold blue. Dark like a winter sea. But his soft, mischievous grin was what held your attention longer. Your lips part ever so slightly, your body seeming to remember what intimacy was like...but in realizing that you were staring, you turn away without a word, feeling warmth bloom in your cheeks.

 

“Suit yourself,” he chuckles, standing up and brushing his bangs back. “I shouldn’t keep a lady up all night anyways. You’ve a journey ahead of you, as do I.” He yawns, before shuffling to the gated-door and swinging it shut. Then he moved back to his spot, the same spot he’d been in for what you assume to be weeks -- at least -- and lowers his head again. Though you could no longer see his face, you still feel like he was grinning behind his bangs. Though whether with mockery or sincerity, you don’t know. Either way, you adopt a similar resting position, weapon lain against your shoulder as his was, and keep an eye on him until yours began to grow heavy. And the sun faded completely.

 

Sleep wasn’t easy to achieve, however,  as the air grew rather frigid during the night. Metal armor seemed to make for poor protection from the cold. In fact, it was as if it only attracted more of it. Shivering, your armor chatters softly as you warily set your eyes on Creighton. The man was sound asleep, steady breaths just barely moving his chest as his chainmail rustled softly at the disturbance. Taking the opportunity, you strip your armor off as quietly as possible, careful not to wake the strange warrior. Down to the thin leather tunic and pants you wore underneath, you fetch a blanket of furs from your pack and warm yourself by the bonfire.

 

You lose yourself in thought for a while, plotting out where you’ll be heading in the morning.

 

Before long, you find your eyes resting on Creighton again, though this time at a better angle. Isn’t he cold? His face was calm enough. Perhaps he’s used to sleeping in his armor, as you are not. Quietly, you creep over towards him and extend your hand to touch his cheek, to check for warmth. As your fingers brush against his hair, his breath catches for a moment, and you hold yours. Though only a moment long, it felt like an eternity before he resumed his normal, peaceful breathing. Your hand still frozen in place, you realize your fingers are ice cold and would have woken him then. You pull your arm back, his hair grazing your knuckles, as you pull the blanket from around your shoulders and drape it as gently as you can over him.

 

As cruel a world as this was, you always tried to maintain some semblance of kindness to the others inhabiting it. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways.

 

You turn away to fetch the cloak from your armor to use for yourself, but feel a hand grab your arm. With a soft, startled gasp, you quickly look back.

 

“Sneaking around in the middle of the night, are you?” Creighton muttered, with one cold, half-open eye upon you.

 

Shit. Fuck! You’ve really done it now. His weapon was still on his shoulder while you, unarmored and unarmed, would have to somehow reach yours from across the room. Not to mention his grip was tight enough for you to feel your own pulse, as a nervous lump caught in your throat before dropping into your gut. You decided to be honest.“I-I was just-”

 

Creighton’s chuckle cut you off as he noticed the blanket. “Caring for a stranger is a  _ rarity _ in this day and age.” He grinned weakly, and his voice seemed deeper in his half-sleeping state.  

 

“Thought you’d changed your mind,” He continued, his grip slackening. His hand slid down your arm until just his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist. Despite knowing you could break free, you were too nervous to move and risk waking him up completely.

 

“Pate would have stabbed you in the back by now,” he growled, his grin fading as his eye closed once more. “But he’ll get what’s coming to ‘im... mark my... words...” He moved his axe aside with his free hand as his voice trailed off, and he fell back asleep soon after.

 

Sighing with relief, you slowly calmed yourself down. His shoulder no longer rested upon by his axe - was he offering that space to you by moving it? No, you’re just reaching, now. Still curious, you sat down beside him, his right hand still weakly holding onto your wrist, though his fingers had slid to your palm as you moved. He must not be interested in harming you at all if even your creeping around and nearly waking him up wasn’t enough to warrant his fervor or distrust. This Pate fellow must have really pissed him off. Making a mental note not to get on Creighton’s bad side, or to wake him up again trying to maneuver out of his hand and past the skeleton near him, you settle down on his right, pulling the extra length of blanket over yourself with your free hand. 

 

His chainmail felt cold against your skin, but you didn’t dare to move any more. The blanket would be enough to keep you...the two of you...warm. Next to him, you realized he was quite a few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders. His body moves gently with the rise and fall of his chest. You feel your cheeks warm at the realization of how close you were to him, and hoping not to wake him, you gently lean your head on his shoulder. ‘ _ Harmless enough _ ,’ you think to yourself, ‘ _ and better than using the wall as a pillow _ .’ You heard his breath catch again as his hand twitches. But he does not wake. After an exhausting day and a warm blanket, you fall asleep quickly, nearly hand-in-hand with the stag knight of Mirrah.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

By the time you woke again, the air was still -- and Creighton was gone. Just the two skeletons who had been your bedmates that night remained, along with the blanket of furs wrapped neatly around you. You feel a tinge in your gut...disappointment? Shrugging it off, you move closer to the bonfire to warm yourself and eat some of your rations for breakfast. As you get up, you notice something glimmering between the skeletons where the two of you slept. It’s a message, scrawled into the stone floor.

 

_ ‘Left to find that sneaky prick. _

_ Be wary of skeleton. _

_ I’ll see you again.’ _

 

A small rush of breath escapes you in amusement as you knock the skeletons over with your foot. ‘ _ Be wary, my ass.’ _ Stretching, you ready and arm yourself before continuing on your way, unaware of both the small grin that had formed on your lips and the warmth fluttering in your chest. ‘ _ I’ll see you again.’ _ You found yourself hoping the same.


	2. A Chance Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bearer of the Curse makes her way through Huntsman's Copse, chancing upon Creighton's summon sign. The two share an intimate moment while hiding from an invader.

It’s been a few days since you encountered Creighton, the grim knight with a penchant for vengeance. These past few days were spent scrambling through the misty forest of Huntsman’s Copse, trying not to choke on the poison dust spread by the Moon Butterflies.

 

Trying not to get ambushed by every mindless hollow remotely near your path, as well.

 

Days spent trudging through the damp, musty caves still haunted by risen skeletons and their morose necromancers.

 

You kick a stray bone into the black, endless pit beside you -- manifested from eons of water dripping away at the floor-- and dig the spiked mace you had brought out of storage into the dirt.

 

Necromancers. Whose bright idea were they?

 

All the wasted effort killing their lackeys just for them to simply bring the skeletons back -- but having to force your way through them all to even get to the robed hags was just as tiring. At least beating skeletons with a mace was a lot more enjoyable than trying to cut them to pieces with a sword.

 

You wonder how they all feel about you: an undead. You just keep coming back as well.... Or perhaps their minds are so gone, they don’t even notice.

 

Breaking free of your idle thoughts, you press on and find a gate. Something connects in your mind as you realize you were once on the other side of it -- and you gladly grab the lever nearby. Using your weight as leverage, you yank the rod down, wincing at its sharp, metallic groan. But the gate gives way and you sigh with relief.

 

The satisfaction in knowing you won’t need to walk all the way back around in the future is enough to make you smile.

 

As you turn around to backtrack through the cave again, eager for a breath of fresh air, something glimmering catches your eye. At first, you assume it’s a forgotten item, or a cluster of souls -- nothing exciting, but always worth a look. But after peering closer, you see it’s actually a summon sign. How nice it would have been if it were outside the cave -- you could have had help trudging through this dreary place.

 

Cocking your head to read it right-side up, you’re surprised to see it’s ... Creighton’s! You’d assumed he had left the area right away, with all his eagerness to hunt down Pate, but apparently he was still around -- though perhaps the ever shifting time and space in this land has drawn your world and his apart, as you never ran into any trace of him since that night.

 

You hesitate for a moment before shaking your head vigorously, as if trying to dislodge any doubts. People don’t just put their signs down and _not_ want to get summoned.

 

Besides -- there was a fog gate behind the waterfall you’d passed to get in this cave, and those foreboding passageways always seemed to spell trouble for you.

 

Before you change your mind, you reach out and touch the glyphic writing on the floor -- it flickers as you step back. An otherworldy sound emerged from the spot, like rushing wind and the essence of music, as Creighton’s form rose from the sign -- though ghostly white. He shook his limbs a bit and stretched, as if he needed to get used to being in this world. It took him a moment to even realize you were there, but when he did, he seemed _surprised_.

 

“I wasn’t expecting t’ see you again so soon.” he said amusedly. You found yourself thinking it was nice to hear his gruff voice again, but shrug it off defiantly.

 

“Well, I thought you were long gone after I opened that cell you were in..” your words trailed as you turn away from him. You start heading for the exit, hoping to hide your smile. Despite your efforts to stifle it by biting your lip, it would have been noticeable through your helmet. Damn thing only covered the top half of your face. You may be glad to see him but he’ll be the last to know, damn it.

 

You make a mental note to get a mask like his someday.

 

“Why the rush?” you hear him ask, slightly muffled as he falls behind.

 

“If I have to spend one more minute in this dank hole in the ground I’m going to go hollow.” you yel over your shoulder, exasperated. Fresh air would be really great right now, anyways.

 

You keep up your pace, listening to Creighton’s chainmail rustle with each step he took to catch up to you, as the both of you walk in silence. What sounds there are from your collective armor bounce off the cave walls with soft echoes. Luckily, his choice of armor meant you didn’t have to keep checking if he was still following you, like you did to any cloth or leather-wearing summons. But about halfway back to the entrance you felt a rush of unease hit you.

 

Great.

 

You’ve felt this kind of lump in the pit of your stomach before. Every time your world has been invaded, in fact. Somehow, you just _knew_. Creighton must have noticed the falter in your pace, or felt the same sensation as you, because he moved to walk beside you -- axe in hand.

 

Finally, the sound of the rushing waterfall outside is heard before you catrch sight of the light poking through the cave’s opening. Hoping the fresh air would help dispel the temporary nausea, you rush ahead, forgetting the cause of it in the first place -- only to be yanked back and thrust against the wall with a dull metallic thud.

 

Creighton presses you in place, with your hands pressed against his chest. You were completely surprised, not just because of his abrupt actions, but also because for some reason you weren’t even sure a white phantom could touch you, ghastly as they were -- you could almost see through him.

 

“What the hell are you -- “ is all you managed to say under you breath before his gloved hand muffles you. You look up to see him staring right into you, his piercing eyes clear despite his ghostly form. You stop trying to mumble angrily through his hand as he nods to the cave opening. Turning your head slightly to get a look, you spy a flicker of red -- the invader whose presence you felt earlier -- searching the area for you.

 

Creighton nudges you further back along the wall, and you scoot as quietly as you can, considering your armor, until the two of you are just out of sight. Assured that you know the situation now, Creighton lets his hand fall away from your mouth, and rests it on your arm. You realize his other hand had been at your hip the entire time, and you feel your stomach flutter again -- though in a different way.

 

The two of you watch for the invader in silence, and you’re relieved to see him completely bypass the cave, turning back the way he came. Creighton, however, seems rather displeased, as he clicks his tongue. You expected him to pull away by now, the danger having moved on for the moment, but he remains leaning against you. Turning your head back to face him, you notice he’s been looking at you for a few moments, but his gaze remains unwavering -- even as your eyes meet.

 

You feel your heart start to beat faster as you quickly look down. You couldn’t seem to match his gaze. The man could win a staring contest with a basilisk with those eyes.

While your helmet wouldn’t have hid your smile earlier, it did hide your cheeks, which you were thankful for -- as you could feel the heat rushing to them, suddenly fully aware of the closeness of your bodies. As a white phantom, he felt neither warm nor cold, but you could still feel his chest behind your hands -- could still feel his hands gently pressed against your waist and arm.

 

You close your eyes and let your head fall forward slightly, tapping against his helmet with yours. His head doesn’t move away, and you feel his hand reach for the small of your back. Your fingertips tremble as you hold your breath for a moment before gently and slowly letting it out.

 

Creighton pulls you closer to him, reaching up with his free hand to pull your helmet off. He lets it clatter onto the floor, the sound muffled by the dull roar of the waterfall outside. His steady gaze never strays from you, but rather studies you. His eyes soften and their corners crinkle as he notices your blushing cheeks. Your bodies were pressed tightly together now, legs interlocked.

 

He cups your chin as his thumb traces your lip, studying you as he leaned in slightly. For a moment you wondered if he was going to try to kiss you through his mask -- but you were done pretending to yourself that you weren’t interested him. The blood racing through your body and cheeks made that clear. Your heart beat at a steady, quickened pace as you pressed your lips against his mask, thinking of his lips -- just on the other side.

 

But your thoughts were interrupted by a bright flash of red from the corner of your eye.

 

“ _Shit_ !” You jump in your skin. The invader found his way around thanks to the shortcut you’d opened earlier --- for _yourself_. Of all the blasted luck you had.

 

Your sudden curse broke Creighton’s attention free as he spun around, grabbing his axe from where he left it leaning on the rock wall. He stays in front of you long enough for you to grab your helmet -- and then he’s off with a bloodthirsty chuckle, chasing after the red phantom. You follow closely behind, thankful for the exertion to work off the blood already pumping through your system.

 

The two of you chased the invader for a good half hour, Creighton swinging madly with his powerful axe, cleaving anything unlucky enough to be in his way -- as you tried to fend off the stray enemies lured in by the commotion. Finally, the invader had nowhere left to run to, and the two of you sent him back to his world empty-handed. Creighton’s axe and your spiked mace stained black with the blood of hollows.

 

The two of you wander back to the waterfall, and slump against the wall for a moment to catch your breaths. Creighton pries his helmet off, his hair -- no different in color even as a phantom -- wet with his sweat as he combs it out of the way with one hand. He grins at you and chuckles between deep breaths.

 

“We make a good team, you and I.” he says, scooping your hand into his -- to your surprise. For once, Pate wasn't the only thing on his mind.

 

“You’re right. It took a while, but no matter what cowardly tricks he tried, nothing could stand in our way.” You squeeze his hand gently and he kisses it firmly -- an odd _knightly_ token of affection, for one whose tabard is stained with blood. But a token that made your heart skip a beat, causing you to bite your knuckle to hide your smile.

 

But his smirk was contagious.

 

The two of you spent a few more moments -- hand-in-hand -- in relative quiet, broken only by your soft chuckles that were muffled by the waterfall.

 

“So what’s next, love?” Creighton said finally, putting his helmet back on -- his eyes seeming to always be resting upon you.

 

“Whatever ghastly beast lies beyond this fog, I assume.” you reply, nodding to the nearby fog gate. Normally, passing through the mists gave you such a sense of dread, unwilling to even comprehend the horrors waiting beyond. But with Creighton by your side, you felt almost elated -- happy to fight whatever stands in your way, no matter the monstrosity. Creighton was always just happy to fight. But even he seemed to have a bounce in his step as you approached the gate and stepped through.

 

The skeleton lords, as rumors called them. The room was a morbid display of bones upon bones -- clattering remains rising from the piles to fight for their masters. Such a sight would have sent shivers down your spine, but seeing Creighton rush gleefully on to meet them was encouraging. In fact, the fight didn’t even feel like a life or death situation.

 

It felt fun.

 

For the first time since you’d found yourself in this dreadful land -- you had fun.

 

As Creighton sunk his axe into the back of the last lord standing, you crushed its skull with your mace. It fell to the ground in a gray mist, and you stepped back with a grin of your own. Is this how Creighton feels when he fights? He always seems to take great enjoyment out of battle. You laugh as he throws his fist into the air, jumping almost goofily as he did. It was cute. He chuckled back at you and waved as the connections between your worlds faded, his duty complete.

 

Your heart twinged, not knowing when you’d see him again. But you knew that you would, and that alone was enough to keep you warm as you traveled on through Harvest Valley. Even as days passed, you relished the thought of meeting him again, and would catch yourself reading every summon sign and message you came across -- or checking every bonfire for him resting by the wall.

 

You felt like a teenager in the midst of your first crush.

 

Could so cruel a world allow such happiness to a cursed undead like you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy I had kind of forgotten you could summon Creighton to fight the skeleton lords so it feeeels kind of shoehorned in to me, but hopefully it doesn't come off that way to readers. Also I forgot that my character used a mace to start, not a sword, but I wasn't sure if I should go back and change the first chapter to reflect that.
> 
> Still pretty fluffy so far! Though not as much dialogue in this chapter oop
> 
> Next chapter is in Earthen Peak, where BotC meets Pate again. Buuuuuut I'm having a hard time deciding if I want to do Pate x Bearer of the Curse (might be non-con???), or just keep him as a normal antagonist. I feel like if I did add Pate x BotC, i'd want the series to end in a threesome -- but I have no idea how to write that in since Creighton (in my opinion) would be a mite possessive of Bearer (especially considering he wants to kill Pate so badly haha -- like how would he agree to having a threesome with him??)
> 
> But anways I hope you all enjoyed reading chapter 2!! Thank you all so much for your time - this is a fun hobby for me and I love reading your guys' comments!


	3. A Pateful Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bearer of the Curse journeys through Earthen Peak, but runs into an old "friend" along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm both sorry and not sorry for the chapter title.
> 
> Also this is "Branch A" (the main story if you ask me, though it does differ from what happens in game)  
> After I finish writing this story path, I'll go back and write branch B! (which will have Pate x BotC!)

Harvest Valley was bad enough, with its poisoned trenches and hulking monstrosities. You spent day in and day out clutching rags to your face -- trying to filter out as much of the nauseating gas as you could. You even spent a day and a half just sitting by the Altar of Sunlight you happened upon. It seemed the only place that welcomed light and fresh air. Finally you made your way inside of Earthen Peak, hoping for respite against the choking fog. But no, it rather seemed to  _ draw _ the miasma in.The water flooding its lower levels was so riddled with poison that just wading through it was enough to make you feel ill.

 

Even the walls seeped with a disgustingly green tinge. And it certainly didn’t help that every jar and pot in this place was filled to the brim with poisonous water.

 

But you trudged further on, consumed by not only your sense of duty -- to gather the great souls -- but also for a chance to see Creighton again.

 

Even now, having exhausted yourself in battle against the Covetous Demon, you felt your heart tug you to continue on. You mused yourself with idle thoughts, keeping your mind off the unhealthy pallor you’d taken on. Maybe he’d be waiting in Majula once you’d conquered the Iron Keep. Maybe he was just around the next corner. Maybe after maybe, you put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the sickly coughing fits as best as you could.

 

What you wouldn’t give to be rid of this place.

 

Soon you began to hear the gentle thrum of the giant gears that turned the windmills of Earthen Peak. The culprits of your undesired state of being. Sucking the deathly air and sludge from the trenches deep below, up and inside.

 

As you make your way past the massive mechanisms, you spy the familiar glimmer of a summon sign, hastily scratched into the floor. A brief spring in your step brings you closer to it...but it isn’t Creighton’s. You begin to wonder if he’d turned back shortly after your last encounter, to look for his quarry elsewhere. But you summon the white phantom anyways, eager for any help you can get at this point.

 

She introduced herself as a devotee, named Scarlett.

And honestly if it weren’t for her help, beckoning you to a nearby windmill, you’d have never known to burn the damn thing. The wooden fans crumbled to ash at the hands of your torch, as Scarlett watched alongside you. It was oddly satisfying to see it grind to a halt, the wind no longer catching in its sails. But as the gears slowed until still, an unsettling silence filled the air. 

 

Scarlett did her best to keep pace with you, but it was increasingly apparent that her version of a safe jump differed from yours. It wasn’t long before the two of you got seperated as you traversed the mill and its many catwalks.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Alone, you venture deeper until you descend a flight of stairs and spot a figure leaning against the wall below. It wasn’t one of the grave wardens, nor manikins that you had fought thus far. And it certainly wasn’t a desert sorceress, nor your misplaced companion, Scarlett. Rather, it was...

 

It was Pate.

 

You freeze in your tracks for a moment. Part of you wished Creighton was here, so the man could get his revenge and be done with it. The rest of you strived to remain present and wary -- Creighton had warned you not to trust him, after all.

 

You approach him, though his eyes are already on you.

 

“Well, we meet again.” he says smoothly. Already you feel your guard lower slightly, against your better judgement.

 

“There’s treasure this way,” he adds, nodding to the door nearby. “...But I’ve a  _ bad  _ feeling about it. I don’t quite have the guts myself…”

 

He chuckles amicably with a sly smirk on his face. It was always near impossible for you to read him -- to determine whether he was sincere or a snake. And it was no different now. But while Creighton’s multiple warnings echoed in your mind, the notion of treasure and the implication that you’d get a cut of it wormed its way to the forefront.

 

And you could tell by the twinkle in Pate’s eyes that he knew. “Alright, fine.” you answer, defeated easily by your own greed. But of course, nothing is ever easy when it comes to Pate’s found treasures. The door is locked.

 

You throw an annoyed look back at him, with half a mind to dunk him head first into one of the many poison pots nearby. Maybe all of them.

 

But he offers only a smug shrug in return. “I suppose you’ll have to find another way around. But this place is too perilous for my nerves. I fear I wouldn’t make it.”

 

You can feel accusations needling in your head -- ‘ _ How’d you even make it this far?’ and ‘What’s the point of being a treasure hunter if you’re not willing to take the risks?’  _ nearly muttered under your breath, had you not bit your tongue.

 

You make your way back up, searching for a way around, but finding only more manikins lying in wait, with grave wardens lurking in the narrow hallways. Dangerous for the mild-mannered, you suppose, but it was nothing you’d not faced before. And there would be more before the day was through, no doubt. You continue to search, finding a broken passageway and all but a shoddy railing keeping you from tumbling below to your death…

 

Well, actually, to another passage, it seemed. You lean on the railing to get a closer look, just making out a closed door, which you hoped was the same one that was near Pate -- if your mental map was anything to speak of. But there was only a few moments before you hear a sharp crack. The wooden railing -- so decayed from time -- had buckled under your weight, crumbling as you fell to the level below with a metallic thud that bounced off the walls all around you. No grinding gears to mask your shame.

 

Your head rang in your helm as every part of you throbbed painfully. Groaning, you inched yourself up, checking every limb and bone for damage. Nothing broken, thankfully. You brush dust and splinters off of you before wrenching your helmet and glove off. You reach the base of your skull, testing it tenderly -- though no matter how gently you press, each touch is painful and sharp. Pulling your hand back, you make out a little blood on your fingertips, despite the dim light.

 

You clench your fist before wiping off you hand on a rag and putting your glove back on. Could have damn near killed yourself because of Pate -- even if it was partly from your own carelessness. You round the corner, nevertheless, curious what ‘treasure’ lie in wait. And with the fragment of hope that it would be something worthwhile to you, as if to make venturing through this entire place worth it.

 

You feel a bit of relief at the sight of it, an old iron chest which, at the tap of your mace, was not in fact a mimic. A mimic would have been the last damn straw. But as it creaked open, you couldn’t hide the solemn disappointment at the sight of...a sorcery.

 

Granted, it was probably a good sorcery, given what little you knew about them. But the fact of the matter was -- you couldn’t use it. Even if you’d started studying right that moment, it would probably take you months before you could even comprehend the spell. You lament it not having been a miracle lying forgotten in the chest. At least the meager faith you had allowed you to sling a few lighting spears, or heal some cuts and bruises once in a while.

 

But a sorcery? It might has well been a blank scrap of paper to you.

 

And it only served as a mocking reminder of your stupidity. Too stupid to make sense of it, too stupid to note the weak railing, too stupid to ignore Pate -- nearly killing yourself for something you couldn’t even use.

 

Clutching the weathered page in your grip, you stormed your way back to the door, swinging it open with a loud slam. Pate was still on the other side, leaning against the wall nonchalantly, unfazed the noise, even. You opened your mouth to speak, holding the sorcery in your fist, but Pate spoke first, his eyes studying the look of anger on your still-sickly face.

 

“Well! Good to see that you’ve survived.” he says to you, again with a tone that felt almost sincere. “Perhaps you’re more...rugged...than I thought.”

 

He pushed himself off the wall to approach you. “In any case, the treasure is yours -- since you went ahead and took the leap.”

 

You shook the page at him again, struggling to get the words out through your frustration as you got in his face. “Th-- This ‘treasure’? I-I-Is nothing more than  _ rubbish _ to me. I almo--”

 

Pate interrupts you, pressing his hands around your shaking fist. “Rubbish or not, it’s still yours. Surely you could fetch a decent amount of souls from it either way,” he assures you with a kind smile. Well, he was right, to be fair. There must be some merchant or sorceror out there who’d be interested in such a thing. You unclench your fist and did your best to smooth out the paper, hoping whatever ancient words were written on it would still be legible. Sighing, you let most of your anger subside. It’s not like Pate knew what was in the chest after all, just that it was valuable.

 

Besides, the exertion so soon after all the poison you’ve dealt with was enough to leave you winded.

 

“It is a fine reward for your bravery,” he adds. “I prefer a more cautious approach… it’s hard to know who to even trust these days”

 

You look up at him quizzically. This, coming from him?

 

“For instance -- I’ve heard that a man is out for my life,” he continues, as your heart almost stops for a moment. Either this man has eyes and ears everywhere, or more enemies than you thought.

 

“Now. what misunderstanding could have ever led to that?” Pate’s voice dabbles in sincerity, as if to brush aside any of Creighton’s account. You let your eyes wander the room, lost in thought. Was it just a misunderstanding? After all, Creighton admitted it was his own mistake that he was trapped in that cell in the first place. But then how did Pate know of a gate that shuts from behind? He must have been there...

 

“The poor bloke must have  _ quite _ an imagination...” he adds, though his smug chuckle breaks you from your ponderings. You feel your eyes narrow at him just slightly.

 

“You be careful too ... my friend,” he warns with a knowing smile, cupping your cheek in his gloved hand. “For trust...can be a dangerous thing.”

 

His smile melts away as a sharp blow hits the opposite side of your head. The world around you whirls out of control as your helmet tumbles out of your arm -- but the sound of it clattering onto the floor is muffled and distant. You feel the wound on the back of your head from your graceless landing throb with pain, melding with your new head injury as you lie dizzy on the cold ground, fighting to stay awake.

 

Pate kneels before you, inching close enough for you to hear him over the ringing in your ear. “Did you think I didn’t know about your little ‘alliance’ with Creighton?” he said, condescendingly, as he pulled one of your gauntlets off. You growl at him, struggling to keep your eyes open as he merely chuckles at you -- but you haven’t the strength or wherewithal to fight back.

 

“But you see,” he smiles, “That man cares only for one thing.”

 

Pate produces his ring, a dark band seemingly made of spikes. Your eyes flicker as you try to get a clearer image of it. The pain in your head has made no signs of subsiding as you lay powerless on the floor, clutching only threads of consciousness.

 

“But what will he think when his little companion has made off with the power he covets?” Pate laughs again, knowing that he’d outsmarted you again. It was all too easy for him.

 

Just as he easily took your hand, and forced the ring onto your finger, letting its spikes carve trails into your skin. You yelped in pain as your consciousness offered a brief moment of clarity through it, before everything faded to black.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

You finally wake again, thanks to the incessant shaking by someone else’s hands. As light returns to your eyes, you see the ghastly shape of a white phantom before you. “Ah, there you are Scarlett.”

 

You hope your tone isn’t too apparent. In all honesty, you’re thankful to see her again, not knowing how long it would have been before one of Earthen Peak’s denizens found you. But you couldn’t help but feel a pang of annoyance that she’d not come sooner and dealt with Pate.

 

“Where is he?” you growl, letting Scarlett help you to a sitting position. Looking around the room offered no trace of him.

 

Scarlett simply shrugs, wearing a confused expression. She has no clue who you’re even talking about.

 

You sigh, gingerly touching the welts on your head and the trail of dried blood from your ear, only to wince at the sharper pain of the ring you now wore. Scarlett reaches out to touch it, but you yank you hand away. You fear that even light contact would dig the spikes deeper.

 

The devotee urges you to take it off, but you shake your head. You’ve had enough pain for today, and pulling the ring free would be decidedly worse than ripping a bandage off.

 

Taking a swig of your estus flask, you make your way back to one of your bonfires for some brief respite, letting the life-giving essence quell your headache. Your finger still throbs as the ring digs into your flesh, but it wasn’t so tender anymore, at least.

 

The memory of its pain is still fresh in your mind, though, and despite Scarlett’s pressure to remove the ring, you slide your gauntlet back on over it. “I’ll take it off when it’s healed a bit more, don’t fret -- no sense in opening the wound again so soon. 

 

Maybe I can find some grease or something…” you mutter at her.

 

“Besides. The sooner I get out of here, the better. I want to be rid of this pestilent place,” you add grimly, “and all its inhabitants.” You clench your ringed hand slightly and feel the dull pain run up your arm. Spite began to drive your every step as the two of you progressed. Each creature you fought seemed to fuel more of it within you. It wasn’t long before you’d carved a path to Mytha -- the wicked queen who orchestrated this entire contraption -- and put an end to her with a solemn sort of glee. Vengeance for all the poison that choked your lungs and soaked your clothes.

 

Scarlett gave you only a worried look as her phantom form faded, her duty complete. But your duty remains, the blood in your hand pulsing at the fringes of your mind, as you ride the lift upwards, taking you to the Iron Keep.

 

It was a long ascent, enough to allow your mind to wander. You longed to see Creighton again, to tell him of Pate’s treachery and hunt the villainous man down together. But part of you feared the Pate was right -- that Creighton would likely cut the ring from your hand and be done with it.

 

But as the heat swelled the air around you, your idle thoughts burned away. Instead, you took your anger out on the Alonne knights, who guarded the keep. They were merely obstacles that stood between you and the next Great Soul. You took their armor as your own as you ventured deeper, paying hardly any attention to the scorching heat. Enemy after enemy fell before you, as the thorned ring pierced deeper -- down to the bone. But any thoughts and warnings to rid yourself of it were like distant memories now -- lost in the fog. Driven by your spite and hatred, you cut down everything in your path.

  
And the Old Iron King was next.


End file.
